


My Home is Yours to Settle In

by perfectlystill



Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: F/M, Jealousy ish, Married Life, Secret Relationship Adjacent, Spideychelle Secret Santa, lots of 'Kind Of' stuff going on here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:28:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28300170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perfectlystill/pseuds/perfectlystill
Summary: What does she expect Peter to do, really?Does she expect Spider-Man to wrap her in a hug? Grab her hand and take her someplace private? Pull his mask above his mouth and kiss her?Obviously not.
Relationships: Michelle Jones/Peter Parker
Comments: 40
Kudos: 114
Collections: Spideychelle Secret Santa - 2k20





	My Home is Yours to Settle In

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Machiavelien](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Machiavelien/gifts).



> Happy Holidays, Machi! I hope you have a wonderful winter season and that you enjoy this a fraction as much as I enjoyed writing it for you.
> 
> Title from Maisie Peters' "Adore You."

A familiar red and blue blur swooshes by. Peter’s arm swoops forward, a web thwiping out and sticking to the building across the street. 

A few pedestrians glance up and a little boy holding his mother’s hand points, arm waving enthusiastically. Peter waves back mid-swing and keeps going. Most New Yorkers don’t react when they see him these days; Spider-Man another thread in the fabric of their daily lives, blending in unless they hit a snag.

MJ watches Peter’s retreating form until he’s a speck in the distance and then nothing at all.

The apartment is dark, sun just beginning to set over the city. It doesn’t make much difference, their view an alley and the cement of the next building. The shower runs loud, steam seeping out beneath the bathroom door, and the constant draft is drafting, so MJ pulls one of Peter’s old Midtown sweatshirts over her head. 

She slips back toward the kitchen, warming up the leftover pad thai. Leaning against the counter, she scrolls through her email until the microwave beeps. She settles onto the sofa, eating forkfuls while staring at the Ikea bookshelves she and Peter spent an afternoon assembling. The pad thai goes from too hot to lukewarm, and Peter leans over the back of the couch to press a dry kiss to MJ’s cheek. 

“Saw you today.”

“Did you?” she asks, except her mouth is full so it sounds more like _difyou_.

Peter’s a better person than MJ, because he doesn’t make fun of her or tell her it’s impolite to speak with a mouthful of takeout. He says, “Yeah. By 57th.”

MJ swallows. “I saw you, too.”

Peter grins, boyish, cheeks flushed from the shower, hair still damp.

“I left some for you,” MJ says, holding up her plate. 

“Sweet! Thanks, Em.” His enthusiasm is just as boyish as his smile, a hop in his step as he turns back toward their tiny kitchen. It won’t be enough for him, especially after a late afternoon of friendly crime fighting, but it was MJ’s order, and she doesn’t want it sitting in their refrigerator much longer. 

Instead of absently wondering if she should rearrange her bookshelf by genre as well as author, MJ watches Peter putter around the kitchen. He dumps the rest of her pad thai onto a plate and sticks it in the microwave, forgetting the cover. Like always. He grabs the new box of crackers they picked up from the bodega down the street, cheese, and the last of the mushy grapes, putting together a cheap, makeshift charcuterie plate before opening a beer by leveraging it against the countertop, arm muscles flexing as the cap pops off. There’s grace to it, the way he tucks the beer bottle underneath his armpit, holds his charcuterie plate in one hand, opens the microwave, eyebrow shifting as he realizes he needs a fork, turning to open the silverware door that always jams on the way back in.

Peter leaves it slightly ajar, balancing the fork on the pad thai, closing the microwave with his elbow and wiggling his eyebrows at MJ before setting everything down on the coffee table. A trickle of beer spills onto his leg, and he wipes it up with his palm, licking it off.

MJ wrinkles her nose. 

“Impressed?” Peter asks. 

“No.”

Placing a piece of cheese on a cracker, he offers it to her. “What about now?”

“Even less impressed.” She swats at his arm. 

Peter shrugs, eating the cracker in one bite. 

MJ wiggles her toes beneath his thigh. “Good day?”

Twirling a noodle around his fork, Peter nods. “A little boy lost his mom in the park but we found her. I helped a woman catch her puppy. Helped a man parallel park.”

“You can’t drive.”

“But I have plenty of experience directing traffic.” Peter sets his plate down on his lap, pointing his fork right and waving imaginary vehicles through with his other hand. “Plus, I have an awesome wife to drive me around.”

MJ scoffs, kicking at Peter’s thigh. “I don’t drive you anywhere.”

He scrambles to catch his plate before the pad thai spills. “We don’t have a car.”

“Next time you want to rent one to spend a night in Atlantic City, find someone else to haul your ass to Jersey.”

Peter pouts, holding a grape carefully between his thumb and forefinger. He squints. “Ned would take me.” A beat. “And we only went for your family reunion.”

“I didn’t want to go,” MJ reminds him, poking at a bean sprout with her fork. 

“Only because your cousin groped me at our wedding.”

“She groped you in Atlantic City, too.”

“Because you _abandoned_ me!”

“I had to pee.”

“I could’ve gone with you,” Peter insists, popping the grape into his mouth. He chews and his face contorts in disgust before he swallows. He immediately plucks two more off the vine, determined. 

MJ loves him.

“No,” she says, “they would’ve thought it was a quickie.”

“We could’ve had a quickie!” Peter says, biting a cracker in half. “That would’ve shown Aidy.”

“Gross.” MJ twirls the second-to-last noodle around the prongs of her fork.

“Don’t talk about our bathroom quickies like that,” Peter says, laughter in his eyes, warm and bright, his fondness for her clear. There’s an underlying huskiness that clenches in MJ’s stomach.

Peter loves her. He never lets her forget it. It’s in the way he finishes the gross grapes, how he grabs her foot and sticks her toes beneath his thigh again because he knows her socks aren’t thick enough, offers her another cracker, asks about her day and cleans up her plate. He says it, too, presses a kiss to her mouth and rubs his thumb along the ring on her left hand, says those three words, natural and habitual and sincere.

Peter gives the woman a little shove as he shoots a web at the light post across the street and swings back toward Rhino. The woman stands still in shock, so MJ rushes forward to grab her, tugging on her arm and pulling her out of the way. 

“Oh my god,” she murmurs. Her body shakes like chattering teeth. 

“You’re okay,” MJ promises. Peter looked over the woman briefly when he freed her from Rhino’s grasp, but MJ does another quick inspection now. She’s clearly rattled, face pale, and her bruises haven’t formed yet, but MJ knows from unfortunate experience that they will. Other than that, the woman seems fine.

MJ hears Peter quip something awful, “rhi _nope_ ceros” involved in the mix, but before she can judge him too harshly (if such a thing is even possible), he hits the pavement, hard, a bone cracking nose that reverberates in MJ’s chest and shoves the air out of her lungs. 

Peter groans, but he pushes himself up on his elbows. He shakes his head like he’s trying to clear it. “That wasn’t very nice.”

MJ hears the petulant pout in his breathy voice, and she unlocks her knees, shifting her weight on her feet just in case.

Peter absorbs a few blows before he regains his bearings. MJ thinks of how much quicker the bruises will show up on his skin than the woman breathing heavy next to her, grateful for how much quicker they’ll fade away. 

Rhino manages to flee the scene despite the beating he takes, and instead of chasing him down, Peter tends to the people that were stomped on until an ambulance shows up. MJ shuffles the woman toward the paramedics as the crowd begins to disperse. Despite most New Yorkers not caring, a few people linger, thanking Peter, fawning over him like Spider-Man’s a celebrity, voices pitching high, words slurring as they speak, nerves no doubt rolling around around their stomachs. 

Most of them are probably tourists.

“Oh, thanks,” Peter says. MJ turns, watching him rub at the back of his neck. “That’s really nice of you to say.”

“Yeah, no problem,” the guy says. His cheeks are flushed, and he shifts on his feet. “I don’t want to-- it’s just-- would you mind if-- Could I get a selfie?”

“Um, sure, yeah,” Peter agrees. As the guy fumbles with his phone, laughing under his breath as he struggles to unlock it, Peter’s gaze sweeps over MJ. He knew she was around. They were supposed to meet at the pizza place down the block for dinner. Peter and Ned have their monthly video game night later, and MJ’s going with Betty, Cindy and Gwen to that off-off Broadway play she’s been dying to see. 

But as the large white eyes of Peter’s mask slide by her without hesitation or backtracking, a heavy anchor sinks in MJ’s gut. She’s not hungry anymore, and she’s not excited about the play, and she wants to crawl into bed and sleep for 12 hours. 

He takes the selfie, checks to make sure it isn’t blurry (it is, and they redo it) and pats the guy on the back as Peter moves on. He signs an autograph for a little kid, high-fives someone else, and walks by MJ to check on the woman Rhino had picked up. 

She feels strangely invisible. 

MJ has plenty of experience feeling invisible, most of it the intended result of her actions. This time it sours in her mouth, curling painfully around her chest, holding her heart in a vice grip. She doesn't know why her body is heavy. She doesn’t know why she feels like tears will prick at the corners of her eyes if anyone asks if she’s okay. 

What does she expect Peter to do, really? 

Does she expect Spider-Man to wrap her in a hug? Grab her hand and take her someplace private? Pull his mask above his mouth and kiss her? 

Obviously not. 

Whatever she’s feeling, it’s not rational, and whatever she wants feels vague and unrealistic. Knowing all of that just makes MJ feel worse, especially when she can’t shake it off, shifting through the crowd as it thins further, already planning to splash water on her face in the dingy, moldy bathroom of the pizza parlor.

MJ’s yanked into an alleyway, but the kick of her leg stops short, the bloodcurdling scream dying in her throat at the familiar body pressing into hers. “Jesus, Peter,” she exhales. 

“Hi.” She hears the tired grin in his voice, his hands squeezing her biceps before trailing down her arms, fingers lacing through hers. “I missed you.”

“I missed you, too, loser,” she concedes. 

This is the first time MJ’s seeing Peter since he left over a week ago on some reconnaissance mission for the Avengers. Well, _seeing him_ might be too lenient a phrasing. She untangles one hand from his, finding the edge of his mask and slipping the pads of her fingertips beneath it. 

“Is it okay if I…?” she asks. 

Peter’s eyes narrow, listening, probably, using his Peter tingle to gauge the situation. “Can I swing us up to that roof?” he asks, pointing behind her. 

MJ hates swinging, but she nods, his arm going around her, tight and steady against the small of her back. She wraps her legs around him and screws her eyes shut, hearing the thwip of his webshooter and the whoosh of wind in her ear. She doesn’t scream, but she takes a second to peel her eyes open when they land, legs shaky as she drops them to the ground. 

Peter pulls off his mask, grinning at her. “Hey,” he repeats, breathless. 

“Hi,” MJ says, also breathless, but for a different reason. 

He kisses her, and there are layers to the breathlessness as his hands slide underneath the back of her blazer and press her to him. Peter’s mouth is soft but insistent, opening her up like they have all the time in the world, tongue sliding hot against hers. MJ likes the feel of his body against hers, hard where she’s soft, and she tries to squirm closer, fingers twisting around the soft curls at the nape of his neck.

“Michelle,” he groans, nipping at her bottom lip before pulling back enough to breathe, forehead resting against hers. “You have to go.”

She frowns. “Go where?”

He chuckles, hands dancing up and down her spine, warming her up. “You have that meeting at the courthouse in 20 minutes.”

Ugh. She does. 

MJ tucks a curl behind her ear but it flies away immediately. “The wind is messing up my hair.”

“Your fingers messed up my hair,” Peter counters, squeezing her waist before attempting to smooth down her curls. 

“Your mask messed up your hair.”

“You can’t prove that.”

Rolling her eyes, MJ grabs his wrists. “Okay, and you’re just making mine worse.”

He squints, lifting up onto his tiptoes before frowning. “Yeah. A little. Sorry.”

Peter’s cheeks are tinted pink, his hair matted and sticking up, eyebrows even wonkier than usual. His expression is sheepish, lips pursed in concentration like he’s trying to figure out how to fix her hair, and Michelle feels the corner of her mouth tug up despite her best efforts to contain it. 

“It’s less windy at street level,” she suggests. 

He pulls his mask back on before he swings her down, and then he looks around the corner of the alley before giving her the go-ahead to scurry away. 

It’s thrilling in the moment. It always is. Whether they makeout on a rooftop or against an old building down a deserted side street, the scrape of her sweater against brick forming little lint pestles. Michelle likes the idea of someone looking out the window of their penthouse and seeing Spider-Man with his hand in her back pocket. She likes thinking about passersby looking into a dark alley and squinting to see the places where she and Spider-Man are pressed together. 

She doesn’t know if she actually wants anyone to see, but the thought of it gets her pulse racing. 

But then she’s pulling at her blazer, mouth bruised and body thrumming with energy and unfulfilled desire, and the feeling fades, turning into something else. Because Peter would never let someone see, sooner jumping away from her as though burned, swinging across town, acting like she’s a stranger and he helped pick up the spilled contents of her purse. 

She’s his wife, and Peter will tell any stranger, whether they care or not, whether they’re listening or not.

Spider-Man wouldn’t tell anyone.

“Thank you so much, Spidey,” the woman says, voice soft and alluring. She reaches out, hand lingering against his bicep as she smiles. “I don’t know how I could possibly repay you.”

Peter clears his throat. “Just doing my job, ma’am.”

MJ runs her tongue over her teeth, watching from her patio seat, arms crossed over her chest. Peter’s already 40 minutes late, and this woman is making him even later by futilely throwing herself at him.

“Ma’am?” the woman laughs, flipping some blonde hair over her shoulder. “Please, call Tinsley.”

“Okay.”

She laughs again, a tinkling sort of thing that she must think lands at the intersection of endearing and seductive but is neither. “Let me buy you a drink.”

“I’m flattered, _Tinsley_ ,” Peter says. “But I really have to go.”

“Come on, you totally saved my life.”

He didn’t. Probably. Tinsley, with her long blonde hair and big breasts and Upper East Side attitude was about to walk into oncoming traffic, too consumed with her phone to pay attention to her surroundings. MJ was paying attention because her husband was 35 minutes late, and people watching is typically a fun way to deal with his frequent and consistent delays. 

Typically. 

Michelle is starting to think getting hit by a Ford would have been an appropriate punishment. For what, exactly, she cannot say. But it feels right. 

“I save multiple lives a day,” Peter says. It sounds like a brag, but MJ can tell he’s trying to downplay pulling Tinsley out of the street. He has to know it’s not about saving her life with the way her eyes rake across his pecs and abs, muscles easily outlined in his skintight suit. 

“Aw, humble, too,” she says, splaying her palm across her heart and tilting her head. “I won’t take no for an answer.”

“Give me your number, and I’ll call you.”

Tinsley narrows her eyes, delight curving at the corners of her mouth. “You promise?”

“Yep,” Peter says, rocking on the balls of his feet. 

MJ clicks her tongue, rolling her neck. Peter’s eyes shift to her, but she obviously cannot see if he’s looking at her with an apology he doesn’t need to give. She’s not jealous, per se, but she’s hungry and impatient and frustration churns in her stomach. Something is bothering her, and she doesn’t want to believe it’s the judgment she’s already unfairly doled out on a woman she doesn’t know. 

She doesn’t want it to be something that gross. 

Tinsley riffles through her Birken for a pen and notepad, scribbling down her number before ripping out the page and handing it to Peter. “Call me any time.”

“Okay.” Peter nods. 

MJ watches as Tinsley pulls Peter into a hug. He must say something because Tinsley laughs again, pulling him closer even as MJ can see him leaning away. Tinsley finally lets Peter go, fingers dancing along his shoulders and down his arm. He must realize he has to swing away or be roped into that drink (or backtrack completely), so he says goodbye and leaves. 

Tinsley eventually moves on, and Peter shows up less than five minutes later, apologizing profusely for his tardiness with a kiss to MJ’s temple, reminding her that she could’ve ordered without him. 

“I know,” she snaps. “I didn’t want to.”

MJ’s in a bad mood. 

She doesn’t take the fry Peter offers, and she doesn’t react to his explanation about the six car pile-up (he says everyone is fine, only the mildest of injuries), and she picks at her salad, less hungry than she was the entire time she was waiting. 

Peter notices, obviously, watching her with concern, wrinkle between his brows, mouth pinched. He kicks gently at her ankle beneath the table, but she scoots her chair back, wincing at the way it scrapes against the sidewalk. 

He doesn’t reach for her hand as they walk to the subway, and he doesn’t rub his palm between her shoulder blades as the train travels between stops like he normally does when MJ’s not feeling well. That also frustrates her despite every signal she sends his way screaming that she doesn’t want him to touch her. 

Peter stops trying to fill the silence, and it weighs heavy between them until they’re in their shitty apartment. The feeling pulsing between MJ’s head and heart webs out until it lands on hurt, expanding when Peter goes into their bedroom after she flops onto the sofa. 

He comes back wearing sweatpants and an undershirt, and MJ can’t even appreciate how big and nice his arms look because he sighs. “You’re not seriously mad at me, are you?”

She rolls her eyes. 

“I wasn’t flirting with Tinsley.”

“Well, now I’m upset you think I’m jealous of a girl whose number you threw away before you even sat down.”

Peter shakes his head. “I’m sorry I’m not a mindreader, MJ.”

She groans, scraping her hands down her face. He has a point. “It’s just that I I didn’t understand, either.”

Peter runs a hand through his hair, jaw tense. He exhales an annoyed sound before cautiously sitting next to her on the sofa, angling his body toward hers. If he moved just an inch closer, their knees could touch. 

MJ makes the move for him.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m just-- I thought I was jealous.”

“M--”

“Don’t,” she cuts him off, resting her palm over his knee so he knows she’s not angry. “I-- I don’t care that she was flirting with you. I think it’s just… it’s hard sometimes. You gave her the time of day.”

Peter’s confused face is irritatingly cute.

“There are times I feel more like your mistress than your wife because when you’re Spider-Man you have to deny knowing me.” Peter rests his palm over the hand on his knee, rubbing his thumb across her knuckles. “You’ll walk right past me. You won’t even meet my eyes.”

“My mask doesn’t even _have_ eyes, MJ,” he jokes. 

She laughs despite her welling tears. “Sometimes it feels fun and sexy, to have that sort of secret. And I know it’s stupid, but other times it hurts, and I still feel like that weird loner nobody wanted to be friends with at Midtown.”

“First of all, you didn’t have friends because you didn’t want them,” Peter says. “And second, that’s not stupid. You’re never stupid.”

She smiles, wiping at her eyes with her free hand. “I’m not, but it is.”

MJ flips up the palm on Peter’s knee and he slots their fingers together. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“Neither did I.”

“I love you,” he says softly.

“I know you do.” She shuffles closer, tucking herself against Peter’s side. He’s warm, smells like sweat and fabric softener, and it’s almost embarrassing how much MJ doesn’t mind the combination. “I love you, too.”

Peter hums, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. 

Her stomach grumbles then, and he laughs. “We still have that box of pancake mix. You want me to make you some?”

“Yes.”

They don’t really come up with a solution. Peter worked too hard to convince people he wasn’t Spider-Man after Beck revealed his identity. Pretending not to know her in public is as much to keep it that way as it is to protect MJ, if not more. And MJ does like the brief scare that shoots through her whenever Spider-Man tugs her out of sight and laves at her neck because Peter can’t help himself. 

But it’s good to have words for what she feels sometimes, and it’s good that Peter knows. 

It’s a start.

“And then I said if he wanted to be such a fuckhead I could-- _hey_!” Cindy bumps into MJ as a burly man’s shoulder collides with hers, running down the street with a box in his hands. “Watch where you’re going, dumbass!”

“Sorry about him. He needs a refresher on sidewalk etiquette,” Spider-Man says, waving at them as he shoots a web, hooking it around the man running down the street. The man stumbles, skidding to a halt, but whatever is in his box must be important because he holds it tight and doesn’t let go even as he tumbles to the ground. 

“It’s whatever,” Cindy says, unphased, pulling MJ to the side and turning so they can watch Spider-Man take the box from the man, scolding. “Don’t you love karma?”

MJ laughs. “I do.”

Spider-Man throws his arm around the man’s shoulders, leaning their heads together before he lets him go. The man shoves his hands into his pockets, continuing the way he was heading as Spider-Man spins on his heels. The whites of his eyes -- well, the entirety of his eyes in the mask -- narrow in on Cindy and MJ. He nods as he approaches. “Are you two okay?”

Cindy shrugs. “Fine.”

“Great! I’m glad.”

She peers at the box. “What’s in there?”

“Just some supplies from the lab around the corner,” Peter says. He doesn’t even try to alter his voice, and MJ would think that’s stupid except that when he _does_ pitch his voice lower, it’s way worse. 

“Cool.” Cindy nods, unimpressed and finished with this interaction like any true New Yorker would be. 

Peter shifts his body toward MJ. “You sure you’re okay?”

His voice is softer, asking a sincere question that has nothing to do with the way Cindy bumped into MJ a few minutes ago. It makes MJ smile, ducking her head and scuffing her boot against the pavement. “I’m fine.”

“More than fine,” Peter says, flirty and stupid, laugh vibrating beneath the words. 

MJ really loves him. 

She rolls her eyes. “Thanks.”

She can’t see Peter’s grin, but she knows it’s on his face, wide and giddy. “Unless you ladies need me, I should get this package,” he taps the top of the box, “back to the lab.”

“You seem like you have a lot of practice with packages,” MJ says.

“Big ones,” Peter volleys back.

She snorts, but if she wasn’t so good at schooling her face, she’d be giving herself away, her happiness extending itself, too intimate for an interaction with Spider-Man, his stupid innuendo too obviously coming from her husband. 

“I’ll see you around the neighborhood,” Peter says, winking and shooting a finger-gun MJ’s way. 

“She’s married!” Cindy calls after his retreating form.

“He does have a nice ass, though,” MJ says, catching the way Peter’s head turns before he pivots around the corner, still listening. 

Cindy whistles, shaking her head. “That he does.”

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the first panel [here](http://www.spidermancrawlspace.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/03/go-kYp65mI9uKQ4aRVZDxEbjQ5lxDPE0dzFpTDzkY8WwA3FygO-jxptYZWUCFT3Uw-7YJcgikwY5s0.jpg), obviously. Like, "dialogue ripped directly from the first panel" Inspired By. Comics!
> 
> Thanks for reading! Comments and kudos appreciated.


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